


Pretty Little Liar

by orphan_account



Category: Dangan Ronpa, Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Gambling, Neglect, Twisted perception of things essentially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:33:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty little liar sat atop a human chair, with that dainty finger twirling, tangled in her hair. Pretty little liar went and paved herself a name, and then she went to lie, lie, lie, and set herself aflame.</p><p>Celestia Ludenberg-centric description practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Little Liar

_Pretty little liar built her iron fortress solid_  
 _With her dainty finger raised, her smile was downright horrid_  
 _Followers believed she ruled Heaven, Earth and Hell_  
 _Learn to speak her tongue of lies, and learn to speak it well_

xx

The revelation that I didn’t care for my family came to me in stuttering bits, much like a withering flame being fanned vigorously to keep it alive, only for the added wind to completely blow it away. Comparable, even, to a seed planted deep in the roots of my gut, growing and growing until one fateful day where its flower blooms in the midst of spring, straight out my open, gaping mouth. It didn’t take much – oh, not much at all – for my childhood to reach out his wrinkled, shaky hands, using the last bit of his energy to wrap them around my throat, choking, choking. Choking until he died, leaving nothing but a monster to feed on the remnants of his corpse.

And that was the way it’s always been for me; aged fifteen years physically but carrying decades on my back, shielded from the prying world with charming smiles and carefully woven lies.

In adolescence my mother’s words no longer made me smile, and for a good part of my life I survived on the small gifts she’d bring for me as a substitute for what she had thought to be love; tokens from work, candies, food from outside.

I’d been fooled into thinking those were expressions of love, too.

Almost just as much as she was.

But, I suppose, if you’ve been surrounded by experts on the art of deceiving since birth, you’d grow up to be a pretty little liar too. Wouldn’t you?

There’s only so much a child can take before they fall apart at the seams. You can sew them back together again, with a sort of steady in your fingertips that only comes about when you force it to, but of course they’ll just be torn apart again, even worse the second time than the first. And of course, you can keep on sewing and sewing and sewing, and they’ll just keep tearing and tearing and tearing, until you’ve got bloodied patches all over your hands and they’re so ragged and worn that they can’t be fixed again, and then nobody’s happy.

But then again, take not what I speak for truth. I’m but a simple-minded, insolent fifteen year old, am I not? Age obviously defines one’s measure of smarts, and therefore I could never, ever hope to muster up the intelligence found in every single adult that exists across a spectrum of dimensions, fictional and in reality and everything in between.

That wasn’t a lie, however, so don’t be mistaken. Even a fool would be able to recognise simple, undisguised sarcasm at its finest.

…

I don’t believe it’s possible for one to know another as much as the other knows themselves. Being able to weave a tale of untruth is more a skill than an art form, because any simpleton can get the hang of telling a white lie here and there. The only times you slip up on something is when you start being complacent, or - God forbid - you want to be found out. Sticking to the same story over and over again, keeping a confident mask on your face throughout, it isn’t a particularly complicated task to master. Your only downfall would be your own conscience, but oh, how easy it is to numb away the guilt that threatens to eat at you.

Eventually, after years of taking care of myself and finding pleasure in things I shouldn’t have, my morals became loose and my words were almost always hollow. I took up gambling long before I was legal for it, playing with people of class and dirty old men and all those in between, and I lived off the thrill of it - the idea that I could lose it all at any given second; that I could take everything away from someone just as easily.

Mere luck alone would be my accomplice in ruining others, and, after my initial blunders where I put half my life on the line and came out the ultimate victor in each and every game, I found that Lady Luck favoured me above all.

…

Addiction is a strange thing. Something you’d never paid much attention to before manages to capture your interest, and only you and you alone will have the pleasure of feeling that interest grow - only you have the power to nurture it, to satisfy the greed for knowledge steadily expanding in your gut. Not always is the addiction a good thing, but not always is the addiction bad.

The addiction I had? I adored ruining people. Dangle one desire in front of a person’s sweaty, pudgy face and you can manipulate the world. They played right into my hands, these fools, these absolute simpletons.

Doing what I loved won me admirers. They worshiped me, pressing their lips to the dirt I walked upon, and it was with this deification that my mind became warped.

Things were the way they should be. I was a goddess walking amongst men, a deity surrounded by pigs wrought from the filth of humankind, and I was absolutely invincible. And to think, the human mind can be so effortlessly broken by something as brittle and easily misplaced as trust. Look at what humans have accomplished as a species. They’re at the top of the food chain, why, they’ve monopolised the planet! Each individual has the potential to do so much more than just waste away - just exist.

And yet, in a world where people are supposed to be exceptional…

Look at how many dogs I have at my beck and call.

Tell me now how humans are praiseworthy, and I’ll see to it that your tongue is removed for daring to speak a lie in my presence.  
…

The day I came to the realisation that Yasuhiro Taeko and the rest of her race were leading fleeting lives, doomed to an existence no one would remember years down the road, was the exact same day I shed my old name, christening myself Celestia Ludenberg instead.

That same day, I received a curious letter.

_Congratulations! You’ve been enrolled into Hope’s Peak!_

xx

_Pretty little liar sat atop a human chair,_  
 _with that dainty finger twirling, tangled in her hair_  
 _Pretty little liar went and paved herself a name_  
 _And then she went to lie, lie, lie, and set herself aflame._


End file.
